


Kusoge Mobage

by Nate_kun



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Drama, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 17:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16581152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nate_kun/pseuds/Nate_kun
Summary: The conventions of a free-to-play mobile cashgrab are ripe for exaggerated introspection.





	1. Rocks I Can't Read and Guns That Shoot People—Out, Not At

**Author's Note:**

> A republication from Fanfiction.net, enjoy. This imbued-in-purgatory on-going series focuses on the sullen Summoner, Kiran, and his absurdist escapades in the surreal continent of Zenith.
> 
> Word Count: 2,521 words.

The Summoner is a hooded man.

For a clean minute or two, that's about all there is to him. Far closer to a puddle than an aquifer.

But such munificent fruits are not enough for him,  _no_ , his contentious claim to fated wish-fulfillment in a fantasy wonderland apparently entitles him to more,  _so much more_. What's more, his contract—a miles-long manifesto detailing his terms of endearment, is disclosed from the innards of his left sleeve and left to unfurl around the perimeter of the castle grounds. It utilizes "conventional" idioms foreign and virtually unheard of to everyone aside from himself, references concepts and ideas that seem far too fanatical to be anything more than malarkey to the common Zenith denizen (wagons  _without_ horses?), and generally reads like the self-indulgent ramblings of a man obsessed. A nut in every sense of the word.

Commander Anna skims through it, what little she can read anyhow. Evidently the Summoner is proud of his blurred, ambidextrous chicken scratch, it's poorly-written both figuratively  _and_ literally.

Still and all, Askr is desperate for sellswords of _any_  kind at this point and his tact for tactics is on a whole other level, a differing plane of reality that starkly contrasts his modernized ego. Against her better judgment, Anna concedes to his conceited conditions, and recruits him for their cause.

Subsequently, the Summoner trades in his generic handle in favor of 'Kiran'. He insists time and time again that it's a genuine name he's had eyes on for eons, and not something 'cool' crafted on the spot ( _either spin sounds just as sad_ ). Regardless of its origins, the label alone pales to what else is bestowed upon him.

Kiran is a hooded man. With a fully-loaded cross-dimensional revolver.

For King Corrin, this is just a little  _too_ eccentric—even for him.

That's another thing. One moment the prestigious ( _juvenile_ ) king of Valla is tending to his individually-named and personified magnolias, the next, he's blindsided by a swarming, all-consuming portal that instantaneously catapults him halfway across the reaches of the multiverse before abruptly spitting him out of the smoking barrel of a magic, tragic, microtransaction device.

It's the start of an incredibly volatile relationship, to say the least.

Corrin doesn't even comprehend what a gun is, let alone one that casts contractually-bound soldiers otherwise known as ' _heroes_ '. A victim of his own era, the closest thing to such a spectacle from his perspective would be a ballistician's cannon—and those are enormously cumbersome, take ages to set up, and are typically reserved for old, wrinkly, curmudgeonly codgers. Just the thought of a man possessing the convenience of a handheld cannon that can pack lead faster than one can say fuck is enough to make the king shudder and plead to the gods to be warped back to his mechanically-inept safe haven. At least when push comes to shove there, the worst that could happen is getting incinerated by spell-entwined tomes.

Yet as it turns out, such a fiery fate is the least of his concerns, for Corrin is among the first to be siphoned from his respective realm and curtly enlisted into a war whose existence he wasn't even aware of prior to his grand old 'kingnapping'. It's unabashed abduction at its finest ( _deja vu, much?_ ), and he's far from alone. Over the days that follow, an overloaded plethora of dazed and confused mercenaries flood in by the dozens to join him, each one whisked away from their various homelands to drop every little thing in their lives and obey the will of a hooded egotist.

Corrin actually recognizes a scant handful of them as peons from his own world's peanut gallery, the unfortunate downside in that regard being that he doesn't care for any of Kiran's personal recommendations.

"S-Stop staring at me, I'm just as confused as you are!"

The king blinks, gaze ignorantly locked on the dancing duelist.

' _Has Laslow always sounded like that?_ '

In short note, no one particularly eye-catching.

An amalgamation of snowflakes if there ever was one, Kiran wastes no time in assuming the position of the dominant force behind the ranks of the ever-growing Askr army, a crowning achievement given his adamant stance of staying as far away from the frontlines as possible. Commander Anna, in turn, is reduced to little more than a benched figurehead that occasionally spits out feathers. Contrary to the gimmick of her cross-dimensional counterparts, nothing of value is lost in the coup d'état.

For Corrin however, it's a bench too far, a step over the line, a horse too beaten, an analogy too many. Having endured more than enough straws on his back, he decides, right then and there, that he doesn't enjoy being ordered around by such an oddball—an oddball who speaks and acts as if he were a second-rate performer attempting to mimic the mannerisms of the cronies around him, rather than a genuine member of the troupe. Truly a foreigner by any other name.

Driven by his burning, draconian desires to return home, tend to his flora, and not-tend-so-much-as-belittle Flora, the fated king boldly throws all caution to the wind and steps up to confront the Summoner—right in the middle of a less-than-charitable summoning session, no less.

"Excuse me!" Corrin exclaims, approaching the gate with the best scowl he can possibly muster ( _a bad one, obviously_ ). "Mister Summoner, head, uh, commander sir! I-I'd like a word!"

' _Gah! Huh!? Son of a—!_ " alarmed by the interruption, Kiran slips and inadvertently fires his weapon—the  _"Breidablik"_  as he calls it, a made-up moniker just as fictitious as the last—a second too soon. The unfocused, premature shot promptly escapes his control and manifests into a wormhole that carelessly dunks Odin into a stockpile of orbs.

"Hoy there, your invisible majesty!" he beckons to Corrin, an orb rolling off his empty noggin. "It is I, fell crux of the shadows and dim forger of brimstone,  **Odin Dark of the Low-Ranking Tiers!**  To what do I owe this most humble shanghaiing?"

The blood-boiling dramatic turns about as many heads as he did the last fifty times he was regrettably brought forth. Unbeknownst to him however, zero multiplied by fifty is still an emphatic zero.

" _Blegh,_ _another one_ _of you.._ " the Summoner scoffs under his breath before turning his attention to the albino intruder. "Cripes, and  _you,_  gods above—don't even get me started on  _ **you,**_ we'll be here all bloody day. You want a word? Certainly, but why stop there? Here's a whole sodding lecture: Respect the privacy of others! Common decency, have your pointy ears heard of it?! I mean, really, do you have any idea how agonizingly overpriced a  _single_ pull from this damnable rock is!? I've got like, dozens of these scantily-dressed chastity druids lining the barracks as is! I don't exactly have room for one more bronze paperweight, and certainly not enough patience to deal with any fruitless distractions in-between!"

"By the gods.." Odin gasps in fleeting awe. "I'm a paperweight!"

Kiran aggressively motions to the mage, a point so unceremoniously proven it requires no further vocal commentary on his part.

In respect to what little dignity Odin has left, Corrin spares him further humiliation by stringing the back-and-forth right along. "Hold on," he begins, hand raised. "You have to pay a  _toll_  in order to use your own weapon? Excuse me for this, but what the hell does the army even pay you for!?"

Corrin rarely, if ever, steps into outburst territory, but this is a level of absurdity even he cannot match, and all Kiran offers in response is a shrug and a smug observance of his scrutiny.

"Good question," the Summoner retorts, his tone adjusted to one suitable for addressing a child. "Honestly, even I would be hard-pressed to reach into the rabbit hole and drip feed you an accurate explanation. Who knows? Who can say? And as far as I'm concerned, who cares? It just so happens that by some stroke of luck or divine miracle, I'm the only person capable of wielding Breidablik for one reason or another, the only person with the spiritual know-how to conjure the heroes that make up the brunt of our forces, the only person that keeps this otherwise defenseless kingdom from being yesterday's news. In your or anyone else's possession, this relic may as well be a hunk of junk with some admirable inscription work."

Kiran turns away from the king, eyes set on the abnormally large slab of stone situated before the both of them, also sporting palatable engravings. "Confusing, isn't it? Pretty to look at, sure, but far be it from me to decipher it. Anyway, seeing as only I can wield, use, and summon from the Breidablik, my services are highly imperative to the resolution of this war. Ergo, Askr pays me a rather paltry sum of twinkly balls for every leg of our campaign that we emerge victorious from, I hoard these ephemeral offerings like a dirty pack rat until they pile up to say, oh I don't know,  _twenty-five_ ,  _thirty?_ Somewhere around there, depends on the focus. Once it reaches that pivotal amount, I stand up to this illegible rock, stimulate it like a poonhound with anywhere from five to twenty of those sparkly little spheres, it in turn resonates with the Breidablik in the form of a catalyst, and just like that _—_ I have a weapon that launches live human fodder for all of ten seconds."

Needless to say, Corrin is at a loss of what to draw from the counter-intuitive explication beyond sheer bemusement. "They pay  _you_.. so that  _you_  can pay this stone.. so that  _you_  can abduct people like me?"

"I prefer the term ' _summon_ '—but yes, that's how it works, to disappointing results more-often-than-not," a pause follows as Kiran closes his eyes, catches his breath and jaded sentiments, and turns around to face the king once more. "Alright, there's your skeevy little economics lesson for the day. That's it. Piss off. I have tri-starred magicians to send home. It's sad really, the sap can make anything disappear except for his virginity—"

" _ **A-Ah, wait!**_ " Corrin calls, suddenly remembering exactly why he stepped into this neck of the woods in the first place. "That's actually what I wanted to ask you about, Mister Summo—"

"Kiran."

"M-Mister Kiran— _or just Kiran_ —Kiran sir! I wanted to ask you if, if.." Corrin halts, gathering all of the spirit and sincerity he can muster, before speaking his heart out. "— **if you could send me home as well!** "

". . ."

Silence.

Moments pass between the two without a word, without a sound, it's as if this is a completely different tale. Time slows to a feverish crawl, entwining the duo in a staring contest of unpredictable proportions.

And then, after what feels like an eternity and a half, the Summoner speaks.

"Nah."

And Corrin is understandably ticked.

"What?! Wh-Why not?! Even after I spoke from the bottom of my heart, it's still a no!? You clearly possess the power to do so, there's no reason to hide it now. You already spilled the beans, so why does Odin get a free pass and not me!?"

"My prestige holds greater merit in the eyes of the Omnipotent Orbphile than the King of Silent Voices and Pleas Unheard!" Odin exclaims from his seat in the background. "Blood ever aching.. my power level grows stronger with each passing day!"

His remarks are ignored, as they should be. "My my, touchy, aren't we?" Kiran hums with the slightest of grins. "You want to know why? I'll tell you: As much as it pains every ounce of my essence, you're far from a liability. You know what that means, right?"

"Liability.." Corrin mumbles, rolling the word off his tongue. "I'm not a hindrance?"

"In the confines of the battlefield, no. Far from it, in fact. You're an ample fighter. Every time I deploy you, I die a little inside, but at the same time, it guarantees a victory on our end. I'd loathe to lose such a team player, so keeping you corralled here is well-within my best interests."

The king isn't sure what to feel at this point, his emotions teetering between contented and contested.

"I.. see," he ultimately chokes out. "And Odin?"

"The fact of the matter is,  _your majesty_ :  **I get far more mileage out of you as is, than the meager return in feathers if I were to send you back.** "

Corrin has no idea what feathers have to do with anything. Instead, all he can think about is something far more meaningful.

"But.. but my friends, my family, those I care most about! You took me away from them against my will and expect me to accept that with a straight face, expect me to pick up a sword and risk my life, knowing that I'll possibly never see them again!? I can't accept that, Kiran,  ** _I won't! I_** —"

"Well, if you're going to be such a whiny little cock about it, I suppose I can cast them over."

"Wait.. what?"

The Summoner crosses his arms, exasperated as all hell. "You heard me, I still have use of you. Therefore, if you cannot be brought back to your wretched kin, why not consider bringing  _them_  to  _you?_ "

"You.. You would do that for me?" Corrin breathes, his anger dispersing into a faint glimmer of hope.

"If it gets you to shut up and slay some Emblians for me, yes," Kiran sighs. "I'd much prefer a swordsman who can kill a man than one who preaches and pitches philosophy to them."

Eyes lighting up in that unmistakable Corrin-esque way, the fated king nods gracefully. "Y-Yes, of course! I'll do whatever it takes to see them again, Kiran!"

"Right, then hop on your bike and fetch me some orbs, cockatrice! We can't very well play family reunion unless I have the energy to do so, can we?"

"O-Of course, Kiran! Right away! I won't let you down! Mark my words,  _ **I will see my loved ones again!**_ "

Invigorated by a brand new endeavor coursing through his veins, Corrin makes his exit by figuratively pedaling on a bike crafted from bonds everlasting and unbroken ties. Kiran groans.

"What a pissant. Ah well, at least it'll keep him busy and hopeful. I probably should have told him that there's only a three percent chance of even pulling his mouth-breathing brethren at all, but.. eh. Tomorrow's problems. Hopefully they can fight half as well as he does, if they do, we're in business.. "

Leaving the matter behind, Kiran returns to the backburner and finds that yes, Odin still exists.

"Greetings, fellow avatar! I see you too have learned to embraced the art of faceless features and hooded coats! I sing only praises of you, praises delivered on wings of darkness!"

"Those wings wouldn't happen to be made of one-hundred and eighty feathers, would they? Because that's what you're about to bargained for."

"Is this true?! Then fear not, my embittered cohort! For I will return in due time!"

Kiran pinches the bridge of his nose, staring into the void as the void stares back.

" _Oh, I know.._ "


	2. Pests That Bug Me and Bugs I Pester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiran and Alfonse talk shit from a balcony high up above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 2, 236 words.

Prince Alfonse of the kingdom of Askr, noble heir to the Askran throne and a harbinger of all things peace and unity. In crueler words—a shamelessly stock caricature of a flaccidly inoffensive royal, whose few qualities neither stand out one way or the other. A star without star power, placidly mediocre in every sense of the word, a dullard day in and day out with a forced relevance loosely hinged on the role he fulfills—an otherwise purposeless existence.

Somewhat mitigated by being the Summoner's self-proclaimed closest acquaintance.

**_. . ._ **

And if Kiran ever holds abhorrent objection to such bold declarations, he  _does_ indeed show it. Quite often, in fact, a riposte so repetitively rehashed it seamlessly leaves his lips every time the prince so much as implicates an inkling of the depths of their camaraderie.

_"Shut the hell up, Al."_

The standard edition, tried and true, more than enough to carry the blunt point across without completely sucking him of his morale. Variants exist, no doubt, a wellspring of one-liners and shutdowns bound only by the limits of what Kiran can conjure in the heat of the moment ( _'Alfisms', if one will, unique in that they all begin differently but all end the same way_ ).

But Alfie is persistent, annoyingly so, and never relents nor truly lives the matter down ( _attachment issues, apparently_ ). What's more, the discourse hardly ends at him. Far from it, and the fact alone only sends shivers down the Summoner's spine. There's two more where he comes from, two more sickeningly sweet acts in this unabashed avatar-fellatio fest. They're admittedly not quite as agonizing in comparison and there's even a certain charm to be had in their company—doesn't help that they're not bad to look at either—but even so, 'obsession' would be putting it lightly.

And yet, despite it all, it is by and large an improvement over the festering pit of reality he crawled out of.

Worse hells exist, and the Summoner is a living testament.

"Look at them, Fonzie," Kiran mutters from his regal perch, glaring down below. "They look like fucking ants from up here. Squelching and squealing, battering at each other as if their lives depend on it. It's like a sweaty, salty sea of copper and bronze,"

"What?" the prince glances between his friend and the oblivious culprits offending his steely gaze. "Do you mean the training yard?"

"Should be a bloody junkyard if you ask me," the Summoner contests without skipping a beat. "That's all it's ever composed of anyhow—wastes of air, wastes of space, wastes of my time. As someone who's been here since launch, the barracks have never been more polluted, and it's only going to get worse with each droning day."

Somehow Alfonse isn't shell-shocked by the bold observation, and he figures it might  _just_  possibly have something ( _note:_ _everything_ ) to do with the fact that this isn't the first time their tactician has spoken his mind, but it still stings him nonetheless to hear it from the horse's mouth. The way he just stands there and openly criticizes the very belligerents he begrudgingly solicits martial aid from—the belligerents who, had it not been for him, would still be in their own worlds, doing whatever it is they do when not under any spellbound contracts.

Alfonse furrows his brow, his lips forming a thin line. "Those heroes train very hard for your approval, you know. I may have.. qualms with growing close to them, but even I can see that. Simply being here at all is nothing short of miraculous to them—"

The Summoner's counter is quick and vile, laced with equal parts bark and bite. "Is that supposed to impress me, Al? Move me to tears? Rev up the waterworks?  **Strum at my dainty little heartstrings?** "

Each snide remark is like a kick in teeth and a pinch of salt in the bloodied gums left over, with his mocking pitch only rising with each palpitating punctuation. "My my, 'scuse me, your highness! Yes, yes, you're right, evidently I'm the one at fault here!" the Summoner cries, tone betraying his words. "Yeah, clearly it's me who needs a stern talking to! Gods forbid I ask a hero to do their job—their very simple job if I may add, the job for which I expend hours to recruit them for—and carry their weight. But no, I guess such lofty expectations were just too much from a calloused man like me! Alack and alas, what cruel demands will he ask of them next?!"

Kiran draws closer and closer, so close that a mere inch stands between him and the bead of sweat rolling down the royal's forehead. "Oh, but don't worry." he drops to a nigh-maniacal whisper. "No need to get all up in arms, your majesty, no need to fear! They may not have even a fraction— _a fraction_ —of the mettle necessary to last on the battlefield,  **but at least they have plenty of hope!**  Cripes, I wonder what's the conversion rate for sugarcoated hope to military prowess in Zenith—gods I'm such a foreigner I just want to kick myself for not knowing it sooner!"

The prince blinks, mouth slightly open, his shock now stronger than his concern.

Kiran scoffs and waves at the air, leaning against the balcony rail with his arms dangling at either side. " **Please.**  Come back to me when these maroons start giving me genuine returns on my investments, then we can talk of 'miracles'."

' _He.. He speaks of them as if they're no different than finances._ ' the prince thinks, simultaneously mulling over the future of the tentative buddy-buddy lunch social if today's dumpster fire is any indication.

A sigh escapes the Summoner as he simmers down to a dejected degree. "It's endearing that you'd think to sway me with such a heartfelt appeal, Alf—comical really. You of all people should know that I'm a strategist, not a sympathizer. It isn't my job to pity these underachievers, and I certainly don't get paid to judge their worth on the frontlines solely by whatever  _'_ compassion _'_  I can manage to scrounge up."

"Kiran.." Alfonse begins, but no amount of flowery words and consolation can placate the Summoner when he's on this much of a roll.

"It's a miserable cycle," he declares in a single exasperated breath. "Breidablik and I slave the daily rounds, exhausting every last method of amassing orb after orb all to flush it down the drain trying to tempt that damned slate, and what does it grant in return?"

The Summoner practically forces himself to cast daggers on the crowd again, just long enough to shed a spiteful spotlight on the first blight to be caught in his crosshairs.

" **Sniveling little potheads like that one!** " he snaps, rearing his ugly head with a convicting digit. "Who is he?!"

_"C'mon Donny! Give that 'ol dummy what for! Hup two! Hup two!"_

"Oh," Alfonse hums, his strain easing at the sight of the bumpkin. "That would be the Village Hero, Donnel."

"A hero whose epithet is so desperate for descriptors it has to use the word ' _hero_ '," Kiran notes. "Well, he's no Odin. Not that I would want another one."

"I'm,  _erm_ , surprised you've seem to have forgotten about him already. His contract with us is only two weeks old. "

"He looks two weeks old. What, are we recruiting bloody kids now?  _Tch_ , no wonder they say war is hell. Did I authorize that and forget to commit it to memory? Fonzo, you're supposed to keep me updated on matters like this—after all, I'm so goddamn committed to bossing these yokels around like a schoolyard bully, I clearly have no time for managing policies."

"Actually, I made certain to notify you of his aptitude at the time of his recruitment," the prince clarifies, eyes trained on the pot-headed peasant's training regimen. "But as soon as I mentioned his rank, you refused to hear any more of it."

"Huh, that does sound like me. And what was his rank?"

"Two stars."

"Ah yes, the quintessential Al Starter Pack—as if three stars wasn't already a criminal offense in and of itself, this plucky farmhand felt it necessary to dock another off his handle. I'm starting to recollect the contempt right about now."

"W-Wait,  _starter pack?_  What exactly are you implying, Ki—?"

" **Listen Fonzie,** " says Kiran with a snap of his fingers. "You and I are like two sides of the same coin, except not really—you're indifferent and asocial toward these mercenaries for trite reasons I don't care to remember, whereas I just plain hate all of them. I don't even try to hide it behind a rosy curtain like you do. They all make me want to choke on my own bile. I'm sure that's something even you can pick up on."

"Summoning them does appear to have taken quite the toll on you," the prince replies with a hand on his chin. "You definitely weren't this pale when you first arrived in Zenith."

"I didn't have these bags under my eyes nor near-constant fatigue either," the Summoner adds. "But that's not my point. What is, is this— **we're in a war.** People die in wars, Al, it's a novel concept. As a tactical marvel, obviously I'm going to want to summon and conserve as many formidable pawns as possible for the skirmishes to come, I can't just squander them on all one lousy fray. Shit's a game of numbers. Only the strongest can survive to fight another day— _only the strongest can begin to fight at all_ —and in your world such merit is measured by dinky little stars."

As he says this, Donnel rams his rusted pike through the sack chest of the training dummy, hay spilling out of the exit wound while he hops and cheers like it's a fucking hootenanny.

The Summoner can only shake his head. "If I had just a little more heart, I'd almost call it sad. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how great his desire to impress me is, no matter how bright-eyed, hopeful, and determined he is to improve—the reality of it is that he'll  **never**  be good enough. There's always going to be some shitter above him, someone better than him, someone who outclasses him so badly that it objectively makes him a bloody liability to deploy him at all. And you'd think I'm just speaking figuratively, like this is some pissy, preachy 'moral of the day' from your mum or something, but no—it's a statistically proven fact that there will literally always be a superior alternative to that walking, talking tin head. Willing to wager why?"

Alfonse lingers on the prompt for much too long before supplying a flat response. "... His stars?"

"Pothead over there can—in all sincerity—become the mightiest two star hero that ever lived and I still wouldn't care, because the mightiest two star will always be outmatched by the mightiest four star. Why should I waste my patience coddling weak links when I can just fire more heroes out of Breidablik in the hopes that at least one of them will be worth a damn? The kid's held back his own limitations and he doesn't even know it. Basically, he and anyone else that isn't at least a four— **may as well be** **dead weight to me.** "

The subtle burn flies over the prince's head.

"I'd send them all home if I could. Ones, twos, threes, all of them. Then I'd bask in the mountain of feathers left in exchange. Hell, I'd start a line of pillows and skip town with the dough—but the commander just  _had_ to catch me trying to send Odin back, so whoopsie-doopsie on this little poopsie, consider me barred from doing that until further notice. Seems she still sees a modicum of worth in them, and honestly, I can't fault her for seeing it like that. Some of them can make good skill fodder, if nothing else."

"I see.." Alfonse nods, having previously been unaware of Anna's interference. "So in the end, no matter what it is you do.."

"I'm stuck." the Summoner answers, clear cut with not a trace of amusement, face buried in his palms. "Stuck with this incompetent cavalcade of cavalry that'll only surge in numbers in due time. For every four or five star I conjure, ten threes are sure to tag along to tip the scales in their favor. And let's be clear, even if I did have the heart to cast them out on the field out of some pure, blind faith that they'll do their best—they would just all die. I'd be knowingly sending them to their graves. Give the country bumpkin an axe to the face and he won't take a mile, he'll take six feet under."

He rubs his temples and groans. "And thus, here we are, overlooking this cramped junkyard of 'heroes' that do nothing but take up elbow room. I can't send them back, I can't deploy them, I can't throw their lives away, I can't even look at them, I can only sneer from afar and summon more. Shit's all coming full circle, Chicken Alfredo. What we're looking at is a colony. A colony of ants."

"I wish I had some repellent."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oftentimes it seems that whenever I'm given a generic "Avatar" character with absolutely no preset character (in the case of Fire Emblem, I'm not referring to Robin and Corrin, who have well-defined personalities while being customizable avatars. Ergo, authors tend to keep them in-character when writing them), I usually like to write them as an asshole. Here, depending on your own interpretation, you might see Kiran as a likable jerk or straight-up jerk, or a mesh between the two. You might even agree with some of his points.
> 
> Particular things of note in this chapter:
> 
> (1) Kiran refers to having recruited Donnel from a summon. While not wrong, Donnel wasn't recruited with orbs, as indicated by his two star ranking, meaning he was instead enlisted from his rotating Special Map. Kiran's poor memory is reason enough for the mix-up.
> 
> (2) You might argue that Kiran could always promote Donnel to his bare minimum stipulation of four stars so that he can be usable. However, this still goes against his philosophy of wasting time grinding inherently bad heroes to "good" status when he can just dump orbs on a shot for heroes that are great straight out of the box. Corrin being the prime example of a success story. On top of that, Kiran's something of a feather-hoarder. He'd never promote unless it was a four star to a five star.
> 
> (3) It's implied that Kiran experiences stress and fatigue from constant summoning. This is a headcanon and isn't explicitly stated in the game, so I thought it was important to disclose here. Wielding Breidablik requires orbs and a dab of gusto. Kiran's utter lack of zest and caustic attitude can explain how its affected him.
> 
> (4) Just as he is at the start of the game, Alfonse is a two star.
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, or concerns, feel free to voice them! Thank you for your continued support!


	3. Bunnies That Spring and Seasons That Hop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiran and Sharena have a tea party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 835 words.

"Your hood can't fool me, don't think I can't see those wandering eyes!"

"I don't have the breath in me to dignify that allegation with a response."

"Oh, lighten up Kiran—it's just me! No need to be so wound up! Or are you just shy under that big, stuffy cloak? Hehe, like what you see?"

 _'Not particularly, no, but if it's compliments you're fishing for, I'm sure there's a hero nearby who would just love to be Mr. Right Now for you.'_ is what he wants to say, but his breath hitches a second too soon and he finds himself yielding with a hackneyed cough.

The Summoner turns away, sullen scowl and all. Sharena is sharper than he gives her credit for, an attribute that on its own puts her above her absolute mess of a brother. Few things can slip by her undetected, and much as he tries to conceal them in the blackest corner of his subconscious, his thoughts are no exception. In reality, his words are more of a twisted half-truth—not an excuse, more like a deflection deliberately spun in his petty favor.

He wants to keep his eyes averted, to gaze at anything but her, but his mind and his body's impulsive inclinations are operating on two differing planes.

It would be delusional— _delirious even_ —for him to deny the physical attraction at this point. It's as plain as the hood on his head and the tent in his trousers, but such exterior admiration is far from exclusive. Deep down,  **he knows** —knows that it's an unspoken consensus amongst most of the men in their militia, and the fact that he lets it get to him at all irks him to the core.

A nigh-ghastly harem of heroes, coupled with her nettlesome attitude and perky wits keep him from feeling too lofty in his lust—a candid reality check, if one will, that all that glitters is not gold.

"The heroes from the World of Awakening had it tailored just for me," she prattles on as he rolls his eyes, for even the thinnest illusion of interest is still too big a strain on his behalf. "I didn't have to ask for it either, they did it out of sheer generosity! Can you believe that? So thoughtful!"

Her enthusiasm is like poison to the ears, to say nothing of how she feels inclined to enunciate everything that comes out of her mouth like it's a cocking tease.

"I was actually kind of nervous to wear it at first, but everyone's been so encouraging! Well, everyone except.."

And yet, the more he dwells on it, the more he realizes that  _everything_  about her is a tease.

"Admit it, Kiran! I look adorable!"

'Adorable' wouldn't suffice, wouldn't even begin to compare to the lecherous praises he'd rather shower her with.

Another cough, and an inward conclusion that he's run low on quips.

Kiran reaches for his cup of cold tea—virtually undisturbed until now—if only to moisten his throat and give his lips something to do that isn't talking. The subsequent sipping is not so much sipping so much as straight-up chugging, drawn out to the extreme—and somehow there's still a fair amount left over when he slams it back down, gasping for air.

Finally, his mind manages to default to something, and he doesn't hesitate to voice it between panting breaths.

"You're a pain, you know that?"

Her ears ( _the fuzzy ones, not the real ones_ ) twitch and she furrows her brows. " _Eh?_  Hey, that isn't a compliment!"

Kiran doesn't refute her claim, instead excusing himself from the table without actually saying so. "I'm going to go summon," he declares with a hand reaching into his pocket. "If you ever get bored of the brothel look, you know where to find me."

As if to exacerbate the performance, the Summoner promptly  _tips her_  with a bundle of feathers, leaving the princess bemused and blindsided long enough for him to make a swift and unjust exit.

"W-Wha? Where are you going?!  _This isn't enough to promote, you know!_ "

* * *

An act is only as strong as its lead, and Kiran is in no state of mind to carry a one-man show.

"Gods," he mutters the moment he steps into the hall and out of earshot. " _Gods, gods, gods—I can't stand that woman!_ " is what he wants to say, and indeed he does say it—just not in the way he truly means it.

Rapidly rubbing his temples, the Summoner drags himself back to wretched normality. A familiar air ( _more of a_ _miasma, really_ ) returns to hang over him, but with an added addendum he can't quite shake. " _Cripes.._ To think I would rather wear my stamina thin with Breidablik than spend another minute with her. How far gone have I become that physical strain actually starts to look preferable? Why do I even bother with her at all? I mean, for gods' sake—"

" ** _I don't even bloody like tea!_** "


	4. I Don't Do Well With Kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiran has an encounter with public enemy number one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 1,231 words.

"You speak of reality with an outsider's tongue, like this is all foreign to you. Who are you, really?"

"A miser with more time than he knows what to do with. Take for instance—attempting to reason with eight year olds."

" _Hmph_ —so what epitomizes normality to you, and where was your place in it before those stingy, uptight Askrans whisked you away?"

"I wrote coffee shop AUs and voted conservatively. I'm only proud of one of those things."

Princess Veronica of the Emblian Empire stands before the gateway with a grimoire of horrors and a glare only a mother could love—in theory at any rate, truth be told the concept is far past lost on her and it shows. Though young in age and small in stature, she more than makes up for her shortcomings with the frigid ice in her heart and the contempt in her contracts, seemingly-indelible covenants that grant an impenetrable authority the likes of which are nigh-impossible to oppose—a particularly burdensome hurdle for any hero subdued to her tyrannical whims.

Kiran, the acerbic Summoner of the Askran Kingdom, opposes her with none of the respect her presence demands, instead bringing with him a wealth of impatience and unbridled nihilism. His response, devoid of context and lathered in modern nuances, raises more questions than answers to the Emblian princess, far from the expository origins she otherwise expected of him. Nevertheless, she abruptly shakes away the confusion coloring her face and extends a cold hand to him.

"It's just you and me this time, Summoner. Your bratty little friends are on the other side of this gateway. There's no one to save you now."

Her intent to intimidate is transparent, almost woefully so, and he finds it difficult to fault her for the effort. All the same however, he finds himself incapable of acting just as theatrically. "Fair enough, I guess," the Summoner hums with an empty shrug. "You caught me. It took a prologue, ten chapters, five paralogues and a single xenologue, but here I am—all alone, defenseless, out in the open, unable to fight my way out of a wet paper bag."

He shifts his gaze to the sky. "I have to commend you on this, really, I must. This may just be the most efficient way to trap a tactician while still keeping him in one piece."

The two are more alike than they realize, but it doesn't bring them closer together so much as farther apart. The mood is tense, yet cold and ominous. A bitter, droning ambience that submerges their surroundings in smothering silence. Opposites attract as the saying often goes, but those with like minds tend to loathe their own blood. Neither find themselves exempt from that calling.

Veronica steps forward, her tome flipping open to an inconspicuous page. "I made a promise to you, and I intend to keep that promise so as long as I live. Nothing you say or do shall sway me from that design."

Kiran instinctively steps back, more out of a desire for personal space than genuine fear. "Gods, not this again. How old are you, really? Six,  _seven?_  And yet you're still barking up my nuts about how I can summon and you can't? Might I suggest a hobby?"

His snide dents the tension but does little to waver the princess. She takes another step, the gateway behind her festering with an aura so fervent it paints her as a deity from his point of view. "You are in no position to judge the interests of others, Summoner. But proceed if you must—run that flippant tongue of yours some more and see where it takes you."

There's a speck of soullessness in her pace, and a pinch of hastiness in his own—it doesn't go unnoticed.

"Go ahead," she says. "Run—run all you want if you think it'll help you, but it won't deter me. Once I've made my mind, there's no escaping its conviction. You can flee to the ends of this world or any other feeble little world your sniveling friends have vindicated, but it won't make a difference. I'll track you down as I always do, and the only thing you'll have succeeded in doing is delaying the inevitable."

Her eyes narrow, and the makings of a spell begin to spark in her hand. "Maybe I'll even pursue you to your own world, lay waste to all of those coffee shops you find so amusing."

He shrinks at the thought. "Please do. Only the shittiest people frequent them."

"Enough!" she snaps, spell burgeoning in her grasp. "I won't let your ramblings distract me any longer—we settle this here and now, Summoner. Either submit to me now and perish on your own terms, or squirm like a mutt as I pop your head clean off... just like I used to do with my dolls."

Her spiel, barbed and brazen, is nothing short of poetry. Sheer malignancy of the mouth more than deserving of its fair share of sympathy and applause, were it not for the subsequent derailing.

"W-What is this?!"

"What the—?"

The earth beneath them rumbles, quaking and shaking with an insistent persistence on intrusive existence. Its meddlesome muddling staggers Veronica, disabling her spell and bruising her ego as she hits the ground. The Summoner too stumbles, but catches himself because he prefers boots over heels.

To their surprise—crawling out of a chasm of convenience, a second gateway manifests itself, emerging between the Summoner and princess as if it were slicing the air itself. Kiran barely has time to react, much less snark about the ordeal unfolding before him, before an echoing voice beckons to him from beyond.

_"_ _Run, Kiran, run! Toward the light! Just go! Trust me! I'm Zacharias, Alfonse and Sharena's friend!"_

Veronica's typically sullen eyes widen greatly at the echoing invitation, she's heard that name before, and to hear it once more twinges her.

Kiran too is no stranger to that alias, but as strange as it may seem, he's unable to recall much else about the man behind it. Most of what his fanbase tells him tends to go in one ear and immediately out the other. The Summoner pinches the bridge of his nose, they must have told him a thousand times.

_"Hurry, Kiran! There's not much time! This gateway cannot sustain itself for long!"_

The warning enters his ear and thankfully stays put, yet Kiran himself stays put as well, refusing to move as he ponders his options.

"Hm.."

That he finds it mandatory to do this at all, even in his direst hour, is telling to say the least. Ultimately however, push comes to shove and the Summoner decides that even the nerdiest prince is still preferable to the wretched tempest that is Princess Veronica. With an escape route cemented, Kiran drops the charade and confronts her.

She barks at him, rambling and ranting with a fist raging too, her composure utterly breaking at the thought of him escaping. He's heard it all before—petty poppycock from a petulant preschooler—and tunes it out without a second thought. To him, her words are gibberish, and he returns her handy gesture with one just as potent.

He raises his own fists, both the left and the right, before extending his middle digits and retreating— _backwards_ —into the second gateway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept of fanfiction is both sad and in a sense, poetically cathartic. Just the fact that there exists a metric fuckton of free, easily-accessible stories, some novel-esque in length, of your favorite characters interacting in contexts you could only dream of when reading them in their respective canon—is both a beautiful and horrifying thing. People actually pay to read Fifty Shades, yet they don't need to spend a nickel to read a full-length novelization of the latest Fire Emblem game that tries its damnedest to rewrite its plot into something actually palpable. Granted, none of us are professionals, we're not master storytellers, but ask yourself, are they? The barometer of what can be considered "quality" enough to professionally publish, is ill-defined if you ask me.
> 
> If you have any further suggestions, don't hesitate to shoot me a line.


	5. I Met My Fiance Through a Limited-Time Focus Banner And It Only Took Sixty-Four Orbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiran and Anna have a spat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 1,870 words.

"I have to say, I'm honestly quite surprised. I didn't believe it when Sharena told me, I had to see it for myself, and now that I have.. I still find it hard to swallow!"

"I wasn't aware getting into character was a crime all of a sudden.  _Hm_ —if that's the case then I should think they'd cart us both to jail. Who knows, maybe we can even share the same cell, perhaps hang from the same noose."

The Summoner leans against one of the many priceless pillars of the chapel, arms crossed, gloom-toting glare fixed on just about anything but the redheaded woman beside him ( _arguably his default stance—were one to ask_ ). "Nice try, you know that's not what I meant!" says Anna as she edges closer to his disinterested mug. "Look at you, you're.. you're not even wearing your coat!"

Kiran abruptly shushes her with a finger to the lips, and with a pinch of unceremonious force, shoves her away with the same digit. "Got in the way of my style, commander. Are there any more glaring offenses you want to point out?"

They're alone together in the matrimonial hall, a sweet bride and sour groom left to their own devices with no one but themselves to keep each other company. Frankly speaking, even that much privacy isn't enough to satisfy the Summoner's unhinged lust for rest and recreation. Anna may as well be anywhere from ten to ten-thousand people as far as he's concerned—her existence no less than that of a moneymongering monopoly of a municipality, populated entirely by profiteering pissants and pundits, a far way's away from the humble pleasantries of his own seldom-held solace.

 _'A City of Annas..'_ he muses for a moment, only to perish the thought as quick as it comes.

_'Four word horror story right there.'_

"I'd have liked to say your demeanor skipped town too," Anna tuts, cheekiness abound. "But it seems you carry that no matter what you're wearing."

In contrast to a certain limp Askran prince, Anna isn't as susceptible to the tides of friendly fire, she knows his buttons and knows them well. It's a bitter brew of karma and suffice to say, Kiran loathes the taste of his own medicine—a vile and dismal syrup with an ill odor and an acidic aftertaste. He can already feel it gradually oozing over the tip of his tongue, numbing his taste buds to the nth degree.

It tastes like shit.

"I see you enjoy making mountains out of molehills, commander. Is that what you do in your spare time?" the Summoner counters in kind, a brow raised. "I understand being benched lends itself to so very little in the way of pastimes, but gods, I didn't think you'd aim so shallow so soon."

She makes a face, it's an ugly one. "And who was the person who put me on that bench in the first place, hmm? Was it the same person who only pardoned me from it just to help him grasp the gist of this festival?"

It's an intriguing perspective, to be sure. She treats her circumstances as if they're fractions of a greater conspiracy, a cover-up from behind the curtains, a dastardly plot hatched within the Order of Heroes to overthrow its commander and strip them of their power, but perhaps what strikes Kiran most of all is that she seems to believe he holds any intention of hiding it.

"That would be me, obviously," he tuts back at her with equal parts shade and sting. "And I can't say I regret it either. You're a neutral, a bad neutral, a neutral that can't be merged with defenses thinner than paper, a shoddy gimmick of an axe can barely scratch the skin of my teeth, and your resistance? I see scum resisting arrest better than you resisting spells."

"At least I can put up a fight! What have I seen  _you_  resisting lately, besides the urge to get on the front lines?"

Kiran tops his critique with a gentleman's shrug, a gesture fitting for the suit but not the man in it. "What can I say? I'm a tactician, not a barbarian. As for you, alas commander, you're more crow than Raven, and with deployment slots so limited as is, it was only fitting for you, I, and everyone involved, that I stock you with the rest of your filtered flock."

"In the barracks." she flatly answers.

His scowl turns upside-down. "Would you rather I send the esteemed commander of the Askran army home? Would if I could but you made me a hoarder of heroes, and even  _if_ I could, I can guarantee you'd only show up at the castle again. To put it in terms you'd understand—it's not exactly a net gain."

"I'm starting to question if your contract was one either."

He nearly chokes in response,  _the nerve_. "My stars, where did  _that_ come from? I'm merely doing what you told me! ' _Don't send a single hero home, they're more than just feathers!_ ' ' _They're people too, you know!_ '. Now, we can agree to disagree on that until the sun comes down, but you're still the commander be it at sunset or sunrise, on the battlefield or on the bench, and if a command is your demand.."

A puff of air and a roll of the eyes.

"—then I suppose I'll understand."

That should be the end of it really, a short exchange following the wages of a well-fought battle, a few quips traded, banter here, blabbering there, all topped off with a concession lingering on the borders of genuine, if not patronizing, sincerity.

The Summoner wonders what compels him to continue talking.

"Besides," he says, almost pridefully so. "You talk as if I've damned us all already. Forgive me if I'm still lost on the festivities, commander, but isn't that the  _blessed whatever_  you're holding onto?"

Anna performs a double-take, she's been egging him for so damned long that the fact she had been holding onto something so treasured simply took a backseat. It's a delayed kind of cognizance, one that takes a while to set in, but when it hits, it hits hard, hits her like a brick straight out of left-field.

" _I-It—_ " she stutters, her grip tightening on the prize. " ** _—It's called the_** ** _Blessed Bouquet!_  **It's the most prized possession one could hope to earn at the festival and it's worth a fortune! I won't have you besmirching its name while we're within the world that bore it!"

Kiran gradually loosens his muscles, shoulders slumping as the commander barks into his ear. "If I must, mother," he concedes. "But even so, blessed prize or otherwise, it still proves a point."

"Hm? And just what point would that be?"

"The Order of Heroes hasn't lost a single skirmish since the day we signed that spellbinding covenant. How long's it been? A few months, four, five? And yet it feels like a bloody lifetime to me. I still remember the look on your face when you brought me out of Breidablik, the shock, the desperation, the sheer...  _naivete_ of it all."

Nóatún would be at his neck were this any other blowhard, that the Summoner of all people is able to sidestep its wrath is an enigma in and of itself at a cursory glance. The commander knows, however, that actions speak louder than words, and it's this knowledge that keeps him standing.

The tension from earlier comes to cease, and Kiran finds that his serum, for the moment, doesn't taste so shitty. Anna resigns to the serenity of it all and leans beside him on that spacious column, and if he has any qualms about it, he leaves them unheard. "Naive? I guess I can see it. Anyone would have to be in order to beseech  _your_  aid."

She to turns to him, face not quite as ugly. "Consider it my fault for not knowing what I was getting into."

And he defaults to ogling the opposing pillar. "Call it what you want, but the fact remains _—_ I've been your life insurance since day one, and fate's been so pleased with the results it's literally throwing flowers my way. Maybe have that on the mind next time you're questioning my worth."

"Eh? Where do you get off preaching like that? You question my worth all the time, you did so just now!"

"But I still respect you. I demean, belittle, and bench you, no different from the others—but I still respect you, very much unlike the others, and really, isn't that what matters most in a workplace relationship?"

"Yeah, you're just contradicting yourself now. At this rate, I may as well convince the brides to revoke the bouquet."

"And squander the trophy we worked so hard to attain on this little detour? . . . Alright, knock yourself out. It's of no use to me now, you already know it's a testament to my supremacy, go ahead, return it to them—"

The Summoner pauses, if just to whisper the next part in her ear.

" _Except you won't because you just said it's worth a fortune._ "

A shiver skids down her spine, but rather than try and deny it, the commander confirms his suspicion. "I was aiming to auction it off, make a decent profit, but it seems it's tied to its victor. We won it fair and square, so now we're stuck with it. The best I can do is honor the festival's tradition and bestow it to some lost soul in need of a blessing."

He doesn't like the way she enunciates 'some lost soul'. Kiran manages to widen the gap between them by a single inch before Anna presents the bundle of blossoms to him.

**. . .**

' _What a woman._ '

"Hm. So this is why you came to nag me."

"Sharena's the one who suggested it! Come on, I thought you said this was a trophy, a monument to your unbeatable prowess!"

He shirks the bouquet."That was before you reminded me that it was won in a marital festival!"

"So? What difference does it make? Just take it! It's bad luck if a bride holds onto her bouquet!"

" _Is this a cocking proposal now?_ Do you even know who I am? I don't need any blessings, hell _—_ **I _am_ a blessing!**"

Needless to say, the commander sighs and rubs her temples. "Fine, fine. I'll lower the stakes for your sake, but you have to commit yourself to them once I tell you."

A dubious trade, one the Summoner submits to in a fleeting moment.

"... Shoot."

Anna pushes herself off the pillar, a skip in her step, and stops dead in the center of the hall. "One dance. That's all I ask. You're never wearing that suit again, so I may as well make the best of it. You get the bouquet, you get the blessings, I feel a little more cultured, and none of our friends are the wiser."

His answer is at first, blunt.

"Piss off. I don't dance. I'd just make a bloody mess out of your feet."

And then, not.

" **On second thought.** "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kiran and Alfonse's interactions usually pit the former over the latter, whereas the opposite is true whenever the Summoner talks with Sharena. Ergo with Anna, I'd say having her and Kiran on equal terms makes for an interesting relationship, wherein they coexist as each other's counteractive foils, a dynamic first alluded to when Anna rejected Kiran's request to neuter his excessive Odin reserve.
> 
> Questions, suggestions, comments, concerns, or critiques? Drop a review, your thoughts are always appreciated, even when you think they aren't!
> 
> The next chapter will likely focus on swimsuits.


	6. When I Said R&R, I Didn't Mean My Assistant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin makes an important report to Kiran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The working title for this chapter was "Men Can't Win Gauntlets, And I Must Scream".
> 
> Word count: 2,394 words.

Sun.

Seashells.

Swimsuits.

Saltwater.

Just one of these would be a high indicator of anarchy. When brought together under the skies on a blistering midsummer's day, however, they more or less form the equivalent to the localization department's worst nightmare.

It's a summer paralogue.

Robin knows this all too well. A former subject to such premium-priced detours in a past life, now once again wrangled into the shore-mired mix thanks in no small part to his new employers. Alas, things were much easier back then—a simpler time, to be sure.

Those halcyon days of yesteryear left to fleeting obscurity, the tactician lives on in present as a humble adviser—an everyman of sorts to the divine, all-knowing, infallible messiah responsible for bestowing unto him his new purpose in life.

The Summoner sneezes and scratches his crotch.

Robin is a far cry from Nino as far as everything save sheer literacy goes, but quite like her, he never fails to do his best on the frontlines. An awe-inspiring mage with more niches than he knows what to do with, the colorless fear him, the reds hate him, the blues want to  _be_ him. It's a lucrative business, at least, in the sense that the tactician sows and the Summoner reaps.

Kiran doesn't notice Robin approaching until his frame blocks out the sunlight, far too late to shoo him off to sandier pastures.

"Excuse me, Summoner," says the lesser tactician. "A word?"

When the commander— _bless her greed-addled heart_ —first mentions a world bathed in the warm glow of a perpetual summer, Kiran is reluctant to orchestrate a field trip, even with reports of Embla's forces besieging the beach and contracting tourists against their will. To him, it's of little concern compared to his own trite list of grievances. The sun is hot, the heat is dreadful, the air is too salty, the sweating is torture, the focuses are rigged as shit, tourists are too noisy and his buoyancy is ill-defined at best—completely non-existent at worst. Even Prince Leo would shrink at the pettiness on display.

Of course, to every bane there is a boon.

And what a shamelessly sweet boon it is.

Clad in trunks tailored to match his hood, flimsy flip-flops, a pair of shades, and a tacky lei, the Summoner lolls lackadaisically in his own little humble slice of nirvana. His skin, pale and pasty, is shielded from the sun's insatiable ire by an umbrella embellished with Askr's sacred emblem, an emblem also borne by the sacred towel under his sacred ass and the self-christened 'radio tome' at his side.

The image of paradise has never been sleazier.

In a near-silent gesture, he slowly turns his head to meet Robin's gaze. Reaching for his bargain bin shades, he lowers them just enough for his subordinate to see the sullen fish-eyed peepers that lie beneath. His lips, puckered and duck-like, begin to stretch, reaching out as far as they can go with as minimal neck craning as possible. They touch a garish silly straw, and from there he sips—sips as if his life depends on it—from the frothy coconut beverage in his hand.

Twelve prolonged seconds pass before the Summoner addresses his so-called subordinate with a milk-induced mustache.

"Who're you again?"

It isn't an insult, tone be damned. The name's on the tip of his tongue, honest, but his taste buds aren't cooperating. Finch? Bobby? Bobby sounds close.

Robin, either out of tolerance or naive loyalty, promptly answers without protest.

"I'm Robin, er," he pauses, almost as if they've danced to this tune before. "High Deliverer? Your adviser? You summoned me to assist you with managing your hectic schedule... er.."

Hectic is a rather strong word for a man waist-deep in leisure.

Placing his drink down, the spiteful Summoner reaches for his 'news tome' ( _another ingenious christening_ ) and skims through its most prominent headline for the day—' _Trouble with Chain Challenge? Just use Horses!_ '—with feigned interest. It's a nice article for what it is but it lacks tactical insight and clearly isn't beta read—a puff piece puffed out in an afternoon just to have something to publish on an otherwise slow week. The Summoner scoffs—cavaliers may bring utility to the battlefield but they are by no means gods, to say nothing of their overpraised steeds.

For all their worth on the battlefield, horses and the like have but a single crippling flaw that keeps them from seeing any form of deployment under the Summoner's reign.

They shit.

Everywhere.

There's pooping, then there's shitting, then there's diarrhea, then there's . . .  _chronic defecation,_ and whatever lies beyond that is an eldritch horror the likes of which the Summoner is far too repulsed to uncover. Somewhere in the center of that sacrilegious scale is where most equine lie—not the most egregious or even the most horrific of offenders, but enough of a nuisance for the Order's stables to be abandoned and left to rot. And this is without even considering pegasi, what with their enhanced mobility and sheer ignorance of terrain, scholars say they rank even further down the rabbit hole.

The Summoner pauses with good reason.

' _What the fuck am I talking about?_ '

Such a bold-faced reality check is what prompts him to acknowledge Robin's existence, anything to stabilize what's left of his sanity. "Oh." he mouths. "Yeah, I guess your twinkly-ass face is somewhat familiar now that I think about it. Thanks for the reminder—would that be all?"

Robin blinks. "Huh? Oh, no actually. You seemed to be free at the moment, so I was wondering if we could discuss somethi—"

Kiran shuts his eyes and lazily traces patterns in the sand. "You said you wanted a word, is that right?"

"Er, yes, that would be correct. So I—"

"I think we've exchanged a lot of words up to this point."

"Ah, well, that... that's also true."

"So feel free to lecture me here if you feel so inclined, but if I were looking at that as an outsider, I'd naturally assume that we were done here, right?"

"Er, yes..? Well, I doubt you would have taken a figure of speech so close to heart but—"

Kiran crosses one leg over the other, reveling in the cool breeze tickling the many, many unshaven hairs on his toothpick legs.

"Kind of hard to run my schedule when the guy who should be  _managing_  it is  _impeding_ it, don't you think? I should hope they don't pay you for this job—"

"You don't."

A rare sigh of content escapes the Summoner, whether it's intentional or driven by instinct is unclear.

"As it should be, you're pretty terrible at it, but enough platitudes—explain what you need, why you need it, and why it requires any action whatsoever on my behalf. And before you even so much as open your mouth, know that I'm a busy man, so I recommend relaying it all to me in ten words or less—chop chop, assistant."

Kiran claps twice and waits patiently for the next-level spaghetti-spilling that's to be expected of an unpaid intern who's been put on the spot, but it never comes. Unfortunately for him, Robin has weathered far worse storms.

"Well.." he begins, hand at the back of his neck.

"Hm? Go on."

"I was wondering.."

"Yeah? Come on, out with it!"

"If..."

"If?  _If what? **What!?**_ "

"If you've ever felt homesick."

For a moment, there's not a sound but the ocean's ambiance. A seagull caws, the waves flow against the seashore.

Kiran's expression changes, he drops his tone and cocks an eyebrow, as he does every time he hears a first. "Oh?" he mouths. "And where's this coming from? I didn't take you for the emotional type, assistant."

Robin plops down beside him and he makes no complaints out of a meddler's interest in his woes. "I'm not, or at least I don't believe so. Makes it all the more strange that I'm even entertaining these thoughts, don't you think?"

"Maybe, I don't know. I don't think too much about home."

"Why not?" Robin blurts out without thinking.

Kiran pauses, his lips pursed, and Robin finds it fascinating that he even has to stop and consider his response.

Whatever's on his mind, the Summoner doesn't dwell on it for long. "I've made peace with it." he answers.

"Made.. peace with it? In what way?"

"It's not worth it," he says, brow furrowing. "Not worth worrying about."

"How come?"

His brow furrows further. "Because there's nothing left for me. Here I have Breidablik, and that's something. Something is better than nothing, and so here I rest my laurels."

"I don't understand.. Surely there must be something for you t—"

His brow achieves a state of maximum over-furrowing. "I thought this was supposed to be about you, assistant—if you wanted to play twenty questions, you could have just asked instead of goading me into it.  **I would have said no.** "

"A-Ah!" Robin sputters. "My apologies, Summoner! That was rude of me, I didn't intend to trick you like that. I really did mean what I asked—though I suppose with your experience, you aren't exactly the person I should be consulting..."

"Hmph." Kiran huffs. "Do you want to go home? Is that what you're tripping your nuts over?"

"I.. erm.. Not exactly."

" _Huh?_ "

"I know, I know. It's odd of me to say when I miss it so dearly. At the same time however, I feel as though... something.. something is anchoring me here. It's not our contract, of that I'm certain. I can't quite explain what it is exactly, but it's tethering me to your stead. As much as it betrays my heart, I'd rather stay here than go back."

"Your heart's wistful but your mind knows better. That's.. new. Never heard of anything like that before. You sure it's something that's keeping you here, or something  _there_  that's keeping you _away?_ "

A plethora of memories flash through Robin's mind all at once, and there's a slight hesitance to his voice as he answers. "I-I.. No, no. It's definitely something here. I think. You see, there are times I can barely even remember my world, and with each passing day I feel like that memory grows smaller. It's.. not a good feeling. I don't even remember my younger years, those have completely been wiped."

"I'm pretty sure nobody remembers what it's like to be two."

"True enough, but it runs deeper on my end. I guess.. if there truly was someone or something I didn't want to return to, no matter how much I missed everything else, then I would remember that most of all, correct?"

The Summoner takes another sip of his coconut smoothie.

"I don't have spontaneous bouts of amnesia, so I wouldn't know— _I sleep in a nice bed every night not on the ground thank you_ —but if I did, I'd probably argue that I  _would_ want to forget something so dreadful it actually kept me from returning to a place I really loved. Who wants to remember the negative stuff? That's why they call it 'repressed memories'."

Another sip, this one longer than the last.

"Maybe it's not that you forgot your memories, it's that you  _repressed_ them. Something horrible must've happened to you back home. Something so bad, so awful, so terrible that you didn't want to face it anymore, you  _couldn't_ face it anymore. You lacked the mental fortitude, the  _will_ to look it in the eye. You probably broke down and had a complete mind wipe, and by the time you woke up you were nothing but a lost little wandering boy until I scooped you out of that murky gutter and told you to genocide every living thing with a bow you could find."

The lesser tactician gasps, not doubting the theory for even a minute. "Could.. Could that really be it?" he asks.

Kiran immediately drops his foreboding persona for a lackadaisical one, sighing loudly and resigning himself to the comfort of his towel. " _Ahh, who cares._ You're already here now, does it really matter how it happened? It's not like I can send you back anyway."

"Y-You can't?"

He crosses his arms behind his back and lets a yawn escape him. "Would if I could but I can't so I shan't. It's no skin off my back, trust me. I'd send an assload of heroes back if I could, but the Commander says no. Defies Askran policy of equal hero opportunity rights and the laws of whatever. Even if she did give the go-ahead, you wouldn't like the way back. It would be really... feathery for you."

"Feathery?"

"Yeah. I'm not being cute or funny when I say that. The consistency of your body would become so diluted and distorted from the exhaustive process of trying to return from whence you came that you would literally  _become_ feathers. An inanimate pile of insignificant feathers—that I would hoard and sleep on every night, thank you."

"I see.. in which case, may I ask you something, Summoner?"

"You kind of already did, but go on, you clearly have nothing better to do."

"If it isn't too much trouble.. since I'm unable to go back.. and seem to be losing sight of what I once had.. would you mind summoning more heroes from my world? If I can't return to them, I think I'd feel of clearer mind if at least I knew they were close by."

Kiran thinks about it far longer than necessary, partially because he seems so sincere about it, so lost and uncertain in even his own train of thought. Something bordering on pity tickles at his heart, and to it he says. "There has been a brave hero I've had my eyes on."

Taking it as a hopeful sign, Robin doesn't push the issue further, and for a moment, they kick back on the beach without a care.

It's a beautiful C-rank—for all of two seconds.

"Heh, I suppose we're  _both_  running away from our troubles, aren't we?"

The Summoner's brow shifts into an unprecedented phenomenon known as next-level furrowing.

"Aren't you supposed to be leading our troops in the siege to take back the beach?!"

"A-Ah! You're right! G-Gods, I nearly forgot!"

"And somehow I'm not surprised!  _ **Get the hell back to work!**_ "


End file.
